Black Roses

by Jane Thynne

  As soon as he arrived back in Berlin it was clear that things had changed dramatically. In the wide streets men were selling matchsticks and women selling themselves. It was impossible to walk out of the Friedrichstrasse Bahnhof without being accosted by hard-faced prostitutes in high-laced boots, their faces scored by hunger and want, offering to warm your bed for the night, or even for the hour. If you strayed from the main thoroughfares in the evening, bony boys would beckon you up tenement steps where their mothers waited in rooms smelling of rotten herring, ready to sell themselves for a few marks. Old men scoured the gutters for cigarette butts and in the far stretches of the Tiergarten cities of cardboard could be found where the homeless patched together shelters of packing cases and old boxes to create semi-permanent habitations. Even the ranks of the respectable, the war widows and the families, were just getting by, holding together a threadbare gentility, existing on cabbage, turnips and bread. On Fridays Leo would pass an ever-increasing queue of people, women with fur stoles, the men neatly dressed, in suits and hats, waiting patiently outside the local office for the dole.

  The current of fear that had once lurked beneath the surface, now ran through everything. In the outer suburbs there were constant battles between Communists and Brown Shirts. They killed each other daily in street brawls, two leftists to every National Socialist. Painting squads would drive in vans through the city daubing swastikas on the property of those they hated. Slogans urging ‘Deutschland Erwache’ spread like black mildew on the walls of apartment blocks housing Communists or Jews. And since January, when Hitler was appointed Chancellor, a sharper edge of terror hung in the air. It drifted through the city like a poisonous gas, seeping through closed doors. There were arrests, often for no apparent reason, and men could be seen stumbling into police cars at dawn dazed with sleep. Leo observed it all with growing despair. It was like being trapped in a paralysing dream where you watched the slow disaster going on around you, but could do nothing to prevent it.

  Back at home most people seemed entirely unaware of the atmosphere here, or the menace that the Nazis represented. The Observer had called Hitler ‘definitely Christian in his ideals and keen to renew his country’s moral life’. Leo had nearly choked when he saw that. Then there were the others, the pacifists, who said if Germany rearmed perhaps she should just overrun Britain and have done with it.

  The Passport Office found itself besieged by streams of people wanting to leave the country. Leo spent his days drowning in paperwork. Under the League of Nations mandate, whereby Britain administered Palestine, anyone wanting to enter that region, or Britain, or anywhere in the British Empire, needed a visa from the British Passport Control Office. Since January they had been queuing in their hundreds to get one. Endless, patient queues of frightened people besieged the office, armed with paperwork, letters and offers of sponsorship, with anxiety in their voices and desperation in their eyes. Visas were what they wanted, to Palestine, Britain, or anywhere that would have them.

  Now, on a dead evening in March, with the tree branches making a black scrawl against a blank sky, Leo looked over at his narrow bed and longed for some yielding female body, even if it was Marjorie’s, to wrap his arms around and bury his face in and distract him from the circling savagery.

  From the street below music drifted up. It was jazz, the degenerate music of the devil, according to the Nazis. The notes floated like bright balloons on the air, daring, unorthodox, unpredictable. He tried to concentrate for a moment, to isolate the song. Then he shook his head, sighed and closed the window.

  Chapter Five

  Until then, Clara had not unpacked her case. She was superstitious that way. She still didn’t know if she was going to find any acting work, though Albert had promised to ‘put her up for something’, but that afternoon she began taking out the few things she had brought and stowing them away. She was used to travelling light. The years in rep had taught her the futility of carrying around a single thing more than you needed. All she had were three blouses, two spare skirts, a nightdress and underwear. The basic cosmetics, a couple of lipsticks, Helena Rubenstein face cream, Vaseline, a Max Factor powder compact, eye-liner. A blue glass bottle of Bourjois’s Evening in Paris. For evenings she had her red buckled shoes, a fur wrap and a backless scarlet dress, which she had purloined at the last moment from her sister’s wardrobe, just in case she needed to attend something formal. Angela would kill her when she found out. In fact, Clara reflected, she had almost certainly found out already. She pictured her sister’s perfectly proportioned face grimacing in annoyance. Yet another person who would need a proper explanation once everything was sorted out.

  She had a few books, a Palgrave’s Golden Treasury and some novels, which she positioned in front of the crimson-jacketed copy of Mein Kampf with gold lettering which had been left on the shelf, right next to the poems of Heinrich Heine, whom Frau Lehmann had plainly not heard was now a despised author of a degenerate race. Beside them Clara propped a letter, addressed and ready for posting.

  As she stowed the clothes away in a cavernous Biedermeier wardrobe that could have housed an entire family, a small silver locket fell out of her rolled-up underwear. She picked it up and held it snug in her palm, absorbing the heat of her hand. Apart from a string of pearls and a pair of earrings, this locket was the only real jewellery she possessed. It had an intricate design of entwined leaves and a filigree clasp. She opened it.

  When her mother knew she was dying, she had prepared special presents for their father to give to her daughters in the years to come. The silver locket containing a minute photograph of her mother and herself had been a gift for her sixteenth birthday. Their heads were bent together, with the same dark hair, long and gently waved on her mother, cut short to the nape of the neck on Clara, with a clip holding it off her brow. They had the same slightly angular features and pointed chin which, when lifted, expressed the same look of resolute defiance. Whenever she looked at it, all Clara could remember was the day her mother died. Being brought in to say goodbye in the front bedroom, which was flooded with a mellow afternoon sun and stuffy with medicine and disinfectant. Her mother lying immobile on the bed, her hands listless on top of the faded chintz eiderdown. Clara had taken her hand gently. It was the first time she had held her mother’s hand since she was small – the Vine family was not given to overtly physical demonstrations of any kind, except to dogs. She felt the heavy sapphire ring loose on the twig of her finger and looked at the papery skin of her face, creased and dusted with powder like some ancient parchment fading into insignificance. She had great brown bruises under her eyes and her black hair, no longer glossy, was wired with grey.

  Clara was the only one of the children who took after their mother. Her brother and Angela were Vines to the tips of their long, sporty limbs. Clara was dark and fine-boned, whereas the others were tall, with tawny hair and the stamina of shire horses. The family of Clara’s mother were bankers in Hamburg, but the Vines could trace their ancestry back to the Norman invasion. They loved the outdoors, long walks and animals, especially shooting them. Perhaps it was this resemblance to her mother that made their father more reserved with Clara than with his other children. Maybe there was something about her he didn’t want to be reminded of.

  Yet, Clara reflected, that distance had existed even before their mother died. Her mind went back to a summer holiday in Cornwall, where her paternal grandparents owned a handsome Queen Anne manor house a mile from the sea. They were all on the beach, Clara reading, and Angela lying prone on a picnic rug, trying to improve her tan. A golden skin had become all the rage since Coco Chanel declared it fashionable, and Angela had equipped herself with a bottle of Elizabeth Arden’s Sun Oil in Honey, which caused a layer of gritty sand to stick uncomfortably to her limbs. The longer she spent in the sun, the more her skin glowed strawberry red. Kenneth was the same, though he didn’t care, but Clara turned as brown as a nut after a single morning by the sea’s edge. ‘It’s not fair, Daddy,’ m
oaned Angela. ‘Why do Clara and Mummy get a tan but never us?’ Clara, looking round curiously for the answer, found her father’s patrician face regarding her speculatively, as if she was entirely unrelated to him. ‘It’s in the blood,’ he said, enigmatically. As though her veins, more than her siblings’, carried some exotic mystery.

  After their mother died, the family fell to bits. Outwardly they held together, but they avoided confrontations and wherever possible led separate lives. Kenneth got a job in the city and Angela tried her hand as a fashion mannequin, gathering cupboards full of expensive clothes in the process. Though their mother’s photograph remained on the top of the Bösendorfer piano, they rarely spoke of her. Frequently Clara had trouble even remembering properly what she looked like. Being here now, in the country where her mother grew up, speaking her language, Clara felt closer to her than she had since the day she died. After all, her mother too had left her home for a foreign country. Hellene Vine had been twenty-two when she arrived in England, four years younger than Clara was now. She was Hellene Neumann then, a pianist with the Hamburg City Orchestra. Ronald Vine, a rising politician, had seen her playing Brahms’ Piano Concerto No. 2 in B flat major and fell instantly in love. After they had married, Hellene had barely seen her German family again. Grandfather Stephan and Grandmother Hannah had visited only twice in Clara’s childhood, and when they died, her mother had not even attended their funerals.

  Clara guessed her grandparents disliked her father. It wouldn’t be a surprise; everyone else did. Daddy’s brusque and uncommunicative manner was famous for giving offence. As children the Vines had accepted the state of affairs unthinkingly, their maternal grandparents were little more than mythical figures in a distant land. But being in Berlin had brought all these questions to the forefront of Clara’s mind. Perhaps that was why she had written the letter, which rested addressed and ready for posting on the bookshelf. It might be that Hans Neumann, the cousin she had never met, would be able to explain.

  Chapter Six

  The Kaiserhof Hotel in Wilhelmplatz, opposite the heavy grandeur of the Chancellery, was a hulking, six-storeyed building, the colour of dirty snow. The portico was decked with scarlet begonias as precisely ranked as a division of storm troopers, and from the upper floors a line of red and black banners billowed, proclaiming the Kaiserhof’s status as the favourite hotel of the Nazi top brass. Inside there was a dull stolidity to the marbled staircase, the mahogany and chandeliers, that suggested the respectability of less exciting times. The air was tinged with the smell of kitchens and cleaning fluid.

  They found a table in the lobby and Helga took off her coat to reveal a floaty blue silk dress with a bow at the neck and a stole of champagne fur. The dress was paper thin, and could have done with a good wash, but from a distance the impression was undeniably glamorous. She was visibly excited, glancing around her restlessly as her crimson-lacquered nails fiddled with a lighter, her head swivelling to and fro as she checked out the guests, as though she, rather than Clara, was the tourist.

  ‘Hitler has his flat here,’ she hissed in a loud whisper. ‘But he doesn’t eat here anymore because the Communists in the kitchen tried to poison his food.’

  Clara looked sceptically at the waiters, ferrying silver trays laden with drinks and small bowls of nuts between the potted palms. The idea that potential poisoners were abroad seemed outlandish. With its red plush chairs and bowls of orchids, the Kaiserhof felt like the height of propriety.

  ‘I still can’t believe we’re having a drink with Sturmhauptführer Klaus Müller!’ Helga lit her cigarette and smiled broadly. ‘He’s the coming man. It’s just a shame that he has to bring his fat friend.’

  Clara was already realizing that her new friend was dangerously indiscreet. ‘Shh! Remember how Sturmbannführer Bauer said your voice was clear as a bell. Well, it is. They can hear you from across the lobby.’

  After the bustle of the street outside, the lobby was an oasis of calm, with National Socialists seated in comfortable seats throughout, drinking beer, or strutting around in their boots and breeches. Beyond them, up a flight of white marble steps, a cocktail party was in full swing. Clara could see a stately reception room, where light from the crystal chandeliers sparkled on the jewels of the women among the black and brown uniforms and a string quartet sawed away in the corner.

  ‘Albert tells me both Bauer and Müller have just been appointed aides to Dr Goebbels,’ said Helga in a theatrical whisper. ‘They’re going to help him run the Culture Department at the Ministry. Which includes film!’

  ‘Is that good?’

  ‘Are you crazy, Clara? It could be wonderful. A girl needs to keep on top in this business. It’s all about having the right friends in the right places.’

  At that moment the brown kepi of Bauer could be seen bobbing towards them, and seconds later his portly frame was visible, bustling importantly to their table. His tunic was ringed with underarm sweat and his face was gleaming. He took off his cap and wiped his brow. Without the hat his head looked too small for his body and the back of his neck bulged over his collar like soft cheese.

  Müller, by contrast, was in evening dress, with a little silver swastika pinned to his lapel. He had a look of forceful energy only just contained by the stiff winged collar and white tie. Clara imagined he must be around forty. When he bent to kiss hands, his hair gleamed like patent leather. He slid into the seat next to her, and clicked his fingers.

  ‘Herr Ober. Champagne.’

  The waiter hurried off with more than usual alacrity.

  Clara gestured at the party in the neighbouring room. ‘What’s going on there?’

  ‘It’s a political soirée.’ Müller had a smile hovering on his lips. ‘I assume you follow politics, Miss Vine, with a family like yours?’

  Clara guessed a political discussion right then would be unwise.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not political. I’m just an actress.’

  He laughed again. ‘I think you’ll find everything is political in Germany right now. Even actresses.’

  They were interrupted by a shriek from Helga, a reaction to something Bauer had said in her ear.

  ‘And I thought you were a gentleman!’

  Bauer’s face had deepened to shade of puce, which crept across his cheeks and extended to the bristles of his scalp. He clamped a meaty hand on Helga’s shoulder and treated her to an unambiguous leer.

  Müller turned to Clara with an almost imperceptible shudder, as though to provide a physical barrier from Bauer, and addressed her in English.

  ‘It’s good to have visitors from England. I hope you’ll be able to give a true account of National Socialism when you return.’

  ‘I’m not planning to go back quite yet. I’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘But you have favourable impressions so far?’

  What were her impressions so far? There was the mood of nervous uncertainty at Babelsberg, the graffiti she had seen spattered on walls and shops threatening death to the Jews, the brown-shirted storm troopers bullying people into parting with money for their collecting tins, and the marching band that had stamped past her as though they hoped to grind the very soil of Germany beneath their boots. Which of those would Müller consider a true account of National Socialism?

  ‘I’m surprised to see so many men wearing uniform. I mean it’s not as if anyone’s at war.’

  ‘A uniform is a mark of pride.’

  ‘Is it? I think uniforms give people airs. It’s like an actor wearing a costume. It makes people forget what they are underneath.’

  For a moment Müller’s eyes widened and a shadow crossed his features. No one, she realized, generally answered him back.

  ‘I believe, Fräulein, you’ll find people here like a uniform. It gives them a sense of solidarity. It gives them the opportunity to feel that they belong to the group.’

  Clara took a sip of her champagne. ‘I’d say it gives them the opportunity to intimidate people when they’re filling
up their collecting boxes.’

  Suddenly Müller rose to his feet. Craning behind her, Clara was aware of a tall woman approaching them, her heels clicking on the black and white marble floor. She wore a Schiaparelli evening gown in ivory, which flattered her creamy skin, and pearls the size of little birds’ eggs hung round her neck. Her platinum hair was waved tightly around her face and a gust of perfume attended her. The flesh of her arms had the dense solidity of a Greek statue, and her eyes had a statue’s veiled, impenetrable stare.

  ‘Herr Doktor Müller! Just who I wanted to see!’

  Müller clicked his heels. ‘Frau Doktor Goebbels. How are you?’

  She had a deep, fluting voice, a little clipped. ‘Good, thank you, though a little tired with the move.’

  ‘I heard. Is the new house to your liking?’

  She sighed. ‘The apartment was becoming too cramped. I liked it, but Joseph wanted something that fit better with his official duties.’

  Müller gestured towards Clara. ‘This is Clara Vine. She’s the daughter of Sir Ronald Vine, the English politician.’

  The woman seemed to notice Clara for the first time and looked at her curiously.

  ‘Is that so? I have some English friends. They have promised to come and visit us.’

  ‘Miss Vine is acting at Babelsberg.’ Müller gave a stiff little gesture towards their companions. ‘Helga Schmidt perhaps you know.’

  Frau Goebbels glanced at Helga and something in her expression hardened momentarily.

  Müller turned to Clara. ‘Frau Doktor Goebbels is the wife of the Minister of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda.’

  Clara nodded politely, thinking what a dreadful mouthful that title was to be saddled with.

  ‘But we prefer to call her the First Lady of the Third Reich,’ he added, with a gallant bow.